by Malcom, Anne
I must have taken longer than I realized, because Lance had unpacked everything in the bags I’d seen him with and was chopping up broccoli.
I blinked at this.
The hot guy in my tiny kitchen, using my shitty kitchen knives and Sponge Bob cutting board. Then I blinked at the things around him. Potatoes, a slab of meat. A box of Oreos.
I had to bite my lip again to stop myself from crying once I realized what this was.
I was usually able to control my tears, being a mother made it compulsory. Being married to an abusive asshole also made it compulsory. Robert liked it when I cried. I guess it made him feel powerful. Like repeatedly hitting me, controlling what I wore, what I ate, where I went and who I was ‘friends’ with wasn’t enough.
It was one my one little rebellion until I found the courage for my big one—not crying. No matter how much pain I was in, no matter what ugly, vile things he spat at me, no matter what he did, I managed to find some kind of control over my tears.
But right now, I was struggling. Because Lance had demanded, rather brusquely, what my favorite meal was, scowled at me, walked out and bought it without a word.
It was a kind of kindness that wasn’t normal. But it was kind. I knew that.
It had been a long time since a man had done something like this for me.
Well, I was pretty sure a man had never done this for me. Except Bobby, of course. Or Nathan, pouring half a box of cereal onto the floor, the other half into a bowl and spilling milk all over the dining room table when he was making me ‘breakfast.’
Lance had obviously known I entered the room, because he was Lance. But he’d continued chopping the vegetables, not acknowledging me. Likely because he was waiting for me to act like a regular human being, comment on what he was doing, thank him, offer him help.
I did none of that. Just stared at him and tried not to cry.
“Lance,” I whispered, my voice thick and on the edge of breaking.
His gaze darted up to meet mine. It was hard, and it didn’t match up with the gesture of this moment.
I guessed that was kind of the point.
“There're potatoes there, you wanna chop them into slices thin enough so they’ll bake in the oven, since I’m guessin’ you don’t have a deep fryer.”
It wasn’t a question. I wasn’t sure if he’d come to the conclusion I didn’t own one because I couldn’t afford one—true—or because I was not a mother that gave her child deep-fried food on a regular basis—also true.
But it didn’t really matter, because beyond that not being a question, it was also an order, one that my body automatically listened to. Maybe because it was something to do other than stand in the middle of the kitchen crying in front of a relative stranger.
So I got the potatoes.
I chopped them.
Put them on a tray, oiled and seasoned them.
And put them in the oven.
“Bottle of wine over there.” Lance nodded his head to the table since he was still busy. I knew he was busy, because after I’d put the potatoes in the oven, I was not. Usually, I hated to be idle, especially when I was idle in my own kitchen while someone else was cooking.
But I was okay with idle since it meant I could give Lance my full attention. Or more specifically Lance’s biceps and forearms my attention. Because they were sinewy. Pure muscle. Pure power. I could take an educated guess and say they were used to inflict violence. That should have scared me, all things considered. But it made me feel safe. Especially since those powerful, dangerous arms were currently being used for the domestic task of cooking in my frickin’ kitchen.
“Elena.”
My name caused my eyes to jerk up and find Lance’s. Shit. Caught. I swallowed roughly. “Wine.” He nodded his head again. “Wanna open it?”
I looked from him to the table where there was an indeed a bottle of wine, the offending thirty-dollar wine that was delicious.
Again, I automatically obeyed the question that was actually a command.
It wasn’t until I had my corkscrew in hand and was staring at the elegant and simple label did I regain proper brain function.
So instead of opening the wine, I turned to look at Lance’s back. Tried not to get distracted by how wide it was, how I could see the sculpted ridges of his shoulders underneath his tee.
I obviously failed at that.
“We need to talk about the wine,” I said, remembering the party, my anger, and the ensuing chaos that distracted me from talking to Lance about this earlier.
His shoulders stopped moving.
“We don’t,” he said without turning.
All fond feelings I had toward him for buying this food, for cooking it, for having great shoulders and forearms, they all went out the window with the cold voice that thought it could order me around.
“I know you’re used to deciding things and them being so because you’re...” I trailed off trying to think of the appropriate adjective. “You,” I finished lamely. “But it’s not gonna fly with me. So even though you’ve made this sweet and very kind gesture of cooking for me and buying the food and the expensive wine, it’s not gonna negate me being able to speak up about something that bothers me.” I was very proud of the fact I said that and my voice was sharp and strong.
Lance paused a beat after I’d finished speaking, then he turned.
“Straight up, Elena, thirty bucks isn’t expensive for a bottle of wine,” he said.
Wrong thing to say.
I gritted my teeth and put my hand on my hip in a gesture that I was sure even a badass like Lance might be able to take as a warning. “It is to me,” I said through my gritted teeth. “And yeah, I get that a thirty-dollar bottle of wine is nothing to a lot of people. Maybe most people. Definitely people who work for fancy security firms in the city, drive nice vehicles and wear kick-ass clothes,” I hissed, hating that I was complimenting him when I was trying to tell him off. “But to this person” —I pointed at my chest— “the single mom who has a kid to raise, to clothe, to feed, to fund his college tuition, to pay for whatever sport he decides to play, and to start building a savings fund for my house in the country with my chickens, dogs and goats—only if I can make the dog and the goat friends—then yes, thirty bucks for a bottle of wine that I don’t need is a lot of money.” I narrowed my eyes at Lance as his jaw ticked ever so slightly in an expression that might have passed for amusement. And as great as it was that the robot was capable of being amused, I didn’t want it to be right now.
“I decide I don’t want to spend thirty bucks on wine, that’s my decision,” I continued, voice sharper and firmer than before, bolstered by a need to scrounge up some pride. “My decision as an adult, and as a mother. Despite this, despite the shit that I have to keep up with in my life, the son I have to provide for, I also want to provide for my friends. To repay people that do shit for me. Do shit like save my kid. That treat me with kindness. That go above and beyond the call of duty for us.” I gave a pointed look at the food behind him. “You took that away from me at the supermarket,” I said, voice quieter. “The ability to do that. I know you were trying to help in your badass, ‘I take control of everything’ kind of way, and sure, I dig it. But not when it comes to stuff like that.”
I let out a breath, tried not to search Lance’s attractive face for a reaction. “In saying that, it’s pretty much a crime to eat steak without red wine,” I continued, picking up the corkscrew again. “So I’m going to open this. And I’m going to get two glasses.”
He stiffened at this, as I assumed he might. “Yes, I know you’re on the job, you need all your faculties just in case a plane falls from the sky and you have to save the neighborhood, but you can have a glass of red and not even dull the edges, I’m pretty sure about that.” I didn’t wait for him to reply, I walked over to the kick-ass cabinet I’d restored, with glass doors that showed my mixed collection of wine glasses and funky bowls and plates.
I took my two biggest ones.
&nb
sp; “Furthermore,” I said, after opening the wine and waiting for it to breathe. “I’m paying you back for the car repairs. Because that’s the same as the groceries. That’s the car I drive my kid to school in. That’s my responsibility. It’s one I want. And that’s all there is to it.”
I didn’t look at him, instead, I poured the wine into two glasses. I took great care in doing this, like I was a heart surgeon, because I was a coward and didn’t want to look at Lance, considering he hadn’t said a word since I’d said my piece. I didn’t regret speaking up. I’d spent far too long biting my tongue, not standing up for myself when a man thought he could control me. I had a voice. I’d use it.
But still, the way Lance was controlling me was nothing like Robert had. He was helping me pay for groceries and buying me wine I couldn’t afford. Because Lance was a guy who I assumed liked control. Not in what I wore, ate, said and my basic human rights. But different things. Harsh, infuriating things that I was starting to figure was his version of sweet.
Sweet or not, I was not letting that fly.
I didn’t need to think about it being sweet. That was a whole other story. A dangerous one. One that most definitely didn’t have a happy ending.
When I didn’t have much choice but to walk over to where he was still staring at me silently, I did so, hand outstretched with his wine.
For a humiliating half a second, I didn’t think he’d take it, I thought he might just continue to stare at me, unravel me. That he might turn away and resume cooking without a word. Or, worst of all, he’d just walk out the door and away from the complicated, slightly crazy woman who talked about goats and dogs in between telling him off.
But he took the wine.
I exhaled.
But I relaxed too soon.
Far too friggin’ soon.
Chapter Thirteen
Lance
He didn’t want to take the glass. Fuck no.
He wanted to snatch both of them out of her hand, smash them on the floor, rip her clothes off and fuck her on the dining room table.
Shit, his fucking finger twitched with the force of that carnal reaction. That need. A feeling that was foreign, in all his life he’d never needed anything that bad as he needed her in that moment.
That’s what his life was about, had been about for the past decade, controlling his baser instincts until they served his goals. Not his needs.
She was too good for him. That was the surface of it. Fuck if she was too good for him in every way, and fuck if it tore at his fucking soul hearing her talk about herself, stand up for herself and hear the shake in her voice, hearing the shame at her talking about people like ‘him’—who she thought he was at least—and people like her.
She considered herself lesser.
Because she couldn’t afford fucking wine.
He wanted to shake her. Fuck sense into her. Kiss her.
Not necessarily in that order.
And then she kept talking. About fucking goats and dogs and farms. About the life she was giving her son. The life she was giving him without help. That she wanted to continue giving him. At first glance, it was her tits, face, eyes, ass, and fucking hair that drew Lance to her. He may have been a severely broken one, but he was still a man. And Elena Phoenix was a woman all men and women who swung that way stopped and looked at. Wanted.
But there was more. There was her standing there, scared of him—he knew that, since everyone was—but still standing up for herself, still determined. After everything that had happened in her life to give her good reason to be afraid to stand up to a man, she did it anyway.
Tits, ass, no matter how magnificent—and they were—meant shit compared to that.
Hence the finger twitch. The near loss of control.
It was a mistake not leaving this afternoon, after what he said. That much was clear. He’d told himself that he could lock it down. That this was just a job.
And he’d fucking lied to himself. It became clear the second he walked in here, seeing that sweet mouth wrapped around a spoonful of peanut butter. All that sweet turned bitter when he realized that was her dinner because she’d go hungry so her son could always be full.
Irrationally, in that moment, he’d decided both of them would always be full, in every way possible. He’d make it that way.
Somehow.
Which was why he’d been a stupid fuck, gone out got the steak, the shit to go with it, came back to cook it for her. Fill her up in the one way he could, because he knew that an empty man like him could never fill up a woman like Elena.
Still, he took the glass.
The way her entire body sagged, like her life had depended on him taking that glass, hit him somewhere.
That’s why he spoke.
“Respect you,” he said, taking care not to squeeze the stem of the wine glass so hard it would smash. It looked nice. Kick ass. Unique, not something he could run to the store and replace. All of her shit was like that. Despite the fact she couldn’t spend thirty bucks on wine, her house managed to look like a million bucks. In her own, hippy, weird way. But it worked.
In a big way.
Everything about her worked in a big way.
That was the goddamn problem.
“Don’t say that to a lot of people, mostly ‘cause majority of people aren’t worth respecting, or else I don’t say that kinda shit,” he continued, not having full control over his voice, that softening of Elena’s features was puppeting him. “But with you, feels like it needs to be said, ‘cause I don’t think people tell you enough. You’re a good mom. Good person.”
Good, keep remembering that. Too good for you.
“Past ten years, haven’t had a chance to do good shit for a good person,” he continued. “Most of the stuff I do is the worst shit for good people, or sometimes for equally worse people. Until Greenstone. Still doin’ bad shit, though. Shit that puts marks against my soul. So was bein’ selfish buyin’ you wine, fixing your car. Giving myself a few marks for the other side. Not doin’ that shit ‘cause I think you’re a charity case, Elena. Doin’ it ‘cause I am. Need all the good I can take.”
She blinked at him, her mouth opening slightly, full lips teasing him with what it would be like to claim them, have them on his skin. On his cock.
The cock that was always at least half-hard when he was around her, when she wasn’t with the kid. Big reason why he focused on the kid. Or that’s what he told himself. Not because he liked the kid. ‘Cause the kid made it easier to breathe around the constant pain in his chest.
Christ, he was a stupid fuck for being here.
For still standing here, holding a wine glass, while she was inches away from him, close enough for him to know she smelled like honeysuckle.
He braced for it. Once what he’d said sunk in. He’d said more words in a handful of seconds to her than he’d said to... anyone in the past ten years. And it just came out, without him even meaning it to. Normally, it took great fucking effort, great fucking pain to speak to people. Luckily the Greenstone guys got that shit. Even their crazy fuckin’ wives who treated words like they got a prize for every one spoke, even they got it.
Rest of the world didn’t get it, which was why he separated himself from it the best he could.
Elena wouldn’t get it. Because she was Elena. She was also a woman. Women hear shit like that spouted, women who were interested—and fuck if he knew she was interested, she couldn’t hide shit on her beautiful face and it was torture—they reacted. Reacted by wanting more words, more feelings, all that kind of crap. And he’d have to be cruel to Elena to get her to stop.
He didn’t want to be cruel.
But had to be cruel to be kind and all that shit. His life, he was cruel to be cruel, and he didn’t give a fuck. Most people he dealt with deserved cruel. Others didn’t, but that was life.
With Elena, he wished he knew how to be kind without being cruel. The old him, dead and buried and decayed might have known one day.
&nbs
p; But that man was dead, and it was this man standing in front of a beautiful, soft woman he was gonna have to be hard for.
So he braced.
As Elena tended to do, she shocked the shit out of him by taking a sip of her wine. No, he’d call it a gulp, like a kid drinking Kool-Aid and it was cute as fuck. She took that gulp, lowered her glass, looked behind him. “Should I make a salad while you grill the steaks?”
It was Lance’s turn to blink.
“Should I make a salad while you grill the steaks?”
Yeah, she just said that.
He’d thought it wasn’t possible for her to get under his skin anymore. But that, right there, that did it.
Not trusting himself to speak, he took his own gulp of wine, shit he hated but he’d drink because she’d poured it for him. The corner of Elena’s mouth turned up slightly and her eye twinkled but otherwise, she didn’t remark on his action.
He nodded once against the burn at his throat that had nothing to do with wine.
“Yeah.” He could only get one word out, it was thick and uncomfortable.
Not trusting himself not to do something stupid, he turned his attention to the steak, made short work of getting out of the fucking kitchen so he could grill them.
The air was muggy, fresh, but it didn’t do anything to whisk away the smell of honeysuckle and Elena. Neither did the scent of charring steaks.
Nothing would.
He’d be smelling that shit on his deathbed.
Elena
I didn’t have an excuse for what I did.
Not a logical one at least.
I did have reasons for what I did.
Many of them.
Like a thirty-dollar bottle of wine. Like steaks cooked to perfection. Like a car with working AC. Like a son asleep in his room, home, safe and sound. Like the words he’d spoken to me, right in my kitchen, showing me something deeper about him. Something damaged. Something beautiful. Something I wanted.
Needed.
That was why I reacted the way I did. That’s why I didn’t press him for more when that was all I wanted... more. I wanted to jump on him. Kiss him. Have him fuck me on my kitchen counter.
